


Risen

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: The World-Eater wakes, yet Tamriel has no Dragonborn Champion. Thus it falls to Tiber Septim, the Man-Who-Became-A-God, to become man once more, and raise the banner.





	1. Chapter 1

_"Let me show you the power of Talos – Stormcrown; born of the North, where my breath is long winter."_

* * *

Cerulean mist shivered and twisted in the heavens, crimson blooming through the bright ribbons of spirit even as Alduin roared triumphantly and pushed through time, breaking forth into the snow-covered hinterlands of Skyrim. Ebony wings unfurled, lurching the consumer of worlds into the frigid sky.

The challenging shout of the dragon rocked across Tamriel; travelling in realms more esoteric and spritual to be heard by every creature within the confines of their soul. And as one, they shivered.

No dragon's soul took up the gauntlet to screech back in fury and defiance, no man or woman stood still as the Dovah within urged them to rise and slay dragons – to stand and be counted.

There was no Dovahkiin to oppose him, and with a mocking laugh Alduin shouted to the heavens above and the voids below:

"This land is _mine_!"

Black and terrible, with a hunger for the souls of mortals, the World Eater wheeled through the sky unopposed.

* * *

Dark eyes narrowed, and the Dragon of the North leaned back into a throne of clearest ruby. Red as blood and of purer stone than any that could ever be found on Tamriel, the seat of divine Talos was a more impressive sight than the throne of the mortal kings and emperors could aspire to become.

The God who was once Tiber Septim thinned his lips, frowning through his close cropped auburn beard as he considered the two-headed man who loomed over him. The head of a dragon and the head of a great bearded grandfather both stared down at Talos as the god with two heads stood before his younger compatriot.

Akatosh never kneeled before anyone.

"So you leave this until now, when your first born son batters down the walls of time to consume Tamriel to tell me that there is no Dragonborn to challenge him?" Ysmir questioned, his tone as insolent as he would have ever dared to make it to the Chief of the Divines.

"Indeed." Auri-El replied dryly. "I have made many Dovahkiin in my lifetime. Alessia. Reman Cyrodiil. _You_. You left many descendants Tiber Septim. Bastards and bastards of bastards. You have had children born on the illegitimate side of the sheets in your family tree for hundreds of years. I had counted that one of your many descendants would rise up and take the call."

"However," the elder god cut off the younger when the newest Divine opened his mouth. "What I did not anticipate was the dogged run of misfortune that has followed your heirs. Assassinated. Taken by sickness. Sterility. And despite that, your line endured. Until the last heir of your blood was slain two weeks ago in a bandit raid. I had pinned my expectations on him. Yet now it seems that we are without hope."

Red-gold eyebrows rose. "Surely there is something to be done? Some hidden son? Some secret plan?"

"Nothing." Akatosh denied. "While the death of your descendant would not have been a great loss on its own – I have been debating blessing the line of Titus Mede with my blood. That it should happen at this juncture is damning. I can water mankind with my blood now, but there will not be the time to have them grow and rise before Alduin consumes the world."

Ageless white eyes stared into Talos'. "I tell you now because when the world ends your strength will be needed to build the next. You have inherited Lorkhan's power for your own, and this is your duty as one of us."

The dragon head hissed, tasting the air with a flickering tongue before the eldest god turned on the spot and vanished. Talos wordlessly permitted the barreling spirit of Akatosh to flee his realm without fuss.

The hall was empty, and none objected when Talos rose to his feet and left the throne unoccupied.

Down Tiber Septim went; deep into the uncharted depths of his castle, weighing the future in his mind.

The Emperor had left the mortal world behind when he'd ascended to become the Ninth of the Divines.

Yet of all the Aedra, only Akatosh meddled more. Auri-El had worked to preserve his creation for as long as he could. And when it came time for the burning and rebirth of that creation, the Dragon God of Time could only accept it as the due course of fate.

Talos too, worked to preserve his creation. The Empire he'd founded had enjoyed his patronage in its endeavors until it had turned its back on him. By rights, it was well past the time for him to have moved on.

But Talos the God had been born Hjalti of Atmora – last mortal son of that frigid land. And he remembered whence he came.

Thus it was that the Lord of War and Patron of Questing Heroes passed down into the darkness of his realm, among the hidden shattered remnants of his predecessor where none dared tread for fear of the Trickster, and knelt.

The knife Talos Stormcrown drew forth glimmered like moonlight, with captured starfire lit along the edges. A peerless weapon.

With only a slight pause of hesitation, the red haired god drew the blade across his heart, splitting skin and sinew and bone without resistance. Drawing forth a pulsing red gem, Tiber Septim surrendered the heart of Lorkhan to the place of hidden secrets and dead gods, and smiled around a crimson mouth.

"This is my blood, which has been given up for you."

Talos fell, tumbling through mist and shredded divinity like a meteor to realms below.


	2. Chapter 2

Hjalti woke freezing, chilled snow pressing against his naked flesh with a vengeance. It was as if by burning cold fire into him the ice could make up for all the years of divinity in which cold had no real meaning.

"Shor's left nut." the Nord swore, rolling over in the snow and rising to a crawl. Vertigo rocked through his brain, and with another curse Hjalti dry heaved over the snow. After spitting forth another curse, he rose to his feet on shaking legs, covering his naked manparts with an instinctive hand.

Wind howled off the Sea of Ghosts, wailing like the thousands of lost souls of its legend. Auburn whiskers gleamed in the moonlight as Hjati threw a considering glance at the snow around him and the sky above before turning south and drawing in a breath.

" _Wuld Nah Kest!_ "

Unrelenting strength seized his legs, a thrumming energy that begged release. And with a grin of relief, the man exploded forth. Snow kicked into powder mist as the world whirled past and air whistled in his ears. Too quickly, the furious power went out of him until it was rekindled with another Shout.

He had many miles to run before the last sparks of divinity sputtered out and left his nude flesh vulnerable to the cold. Shouts came easily now, fueled by the song of greater power in his lungs. But it would not last him overlong.

* * *

If not for the need for stealth, Hjalti would have sputtered out a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

 _Him_ , Divine Talos, reduced to stealing a farmer's underclothes? Crawling on his stomach in the dirt was a novelty, reminding him of years gone by and bloody battles won through the ingenuity of stolen intelligence.

Of course, there were no great battles him this hour.

But he was still new to the old suffering of the mortal coil. Even now, another spark died and the chill gained strength. Hjati shuddered, wondering at the insanity of his choices before pushing at the door to the hovel. The simple lock easily clicked open under a faint push of his lingering power.

The fire burned low, casting only the faintest of red embers to glow in the hearth as the former Divine cocked an ear and listened for the slow breathing of a sleeping family. Nodding in satisfaction at the affirmative, Hjalti tip-toed inside and crept up to the bedside.

A gray-haired Nord snorted in his sleep and rolled on his side, throwing an arm over an equally gray-haired wife and falling back into deeper sleep. Snatching a tunic and a pair of trousers from the back of a wobbly old chair, Hjalti decided he would forgo the underclothes after all and slipped back out of the hut.

Pulling on the pilfered clothing, the Nord turned to continue his barefoot journey to Whiterun before stopping indecisively. Sharp blue eyes narrowed before the man sighed and knelt, scraping dirt away to dig a shallow hole.

Hjalti's empty hand cupped over the empty hole, and the Dovahkiin drew on the fading flickers inside to will into the emptiness. The starlight inside him dimmed further, but he smiled in grim satisfaction.

A single scrape filled dirt back into the pit, and with a final glance at the tatched home, the former Emperor took off running.

The farmer would be very distressed the following morning to have lost his lucky set of trousers. Yet from that day forward his land would yield crops with a divine providence. Living comfortably to the end of his days, the old man and his wife never discovered that buried before their porch was one of Tiber's lucky Septims.

* * *

Dawn broke over the moutains of the East, throwing out his shadow before him as Hjalti padded Westward along the road to Whiterun. The last of Talos' divine light faded with the sun, and he was just another mortal once more.

Windhelm arched to the north, high spires challenging the very winds and snow. But Hlalti had not intention at his current juncture to venture into the old City of Kings. Ulfric sat the seat of Ysgramor, and Hjalti had yet to conclude his measure of _that_ man.

"Well lookie here boys." A voice leered, and Hjalti cocked an eyebrow. Striding down from one of the ridges that built over the hills to the south and gave birth to the Throat of the World, a man wrapped in a mixture of leather and iron waved mockingly.

"Hail traveler!" Taking in the unarmoured and weaponless mark, the thug strode right up to Hjalti boldly and dropped a hand on the former Divine's shoulder. Two similarly clad rogues trailed at his heels, affecting an air of intimidation.

"You must be lost friend. Everyone around these parts knows that this here road is watched over by Jeek and his boys." Eyes the colour of mud winked. "In exchange for our protection from all the animals of the wild, upstanding citizens such as ourselves are due our fair fee, am I right boys?"

The two men jeered, and Jeek smirked. "So how about you be a good lad and fork over a couple of coins? Just fair, isn't that right? And we'll let you head your merry way. If not..." Jeek squeezed Hjalti's shoulder a little tighter. "Well, we've got no compuction about taking our little tax in less friendly ways. Guarding the road isn't cheap, aye?"

Something very cold grew in Hjalti's eyes as he tipped his head and narrowed dark red eyebrows. Air pulled into the Dovahkiin's lungs, and pushed out. _"Yol."_

The shout blew out, flames forking forth from Hjalti's mouth and engulfing Jeek's head in a whirl of fire. The racketeer sceamed, high keening and full of agony before cutting off abruptly and collapsing with a rank smell of burnt flesh.

Jeek's partners stood with their mouths gaping, giving Hjalti more than ample time to sweep down and yank the leader's blade from its scabbard and drive it into the chest of the man on the left, grinding through leather.

The second man squealed and leapt backwards, tripping over a boulder alongside the pathway and landing on his rump. Blue eyes shot open with fear within the sockets of the iron helm, and the last bandit squeaked "By Shor, what _are_ you?"

Hjalti's reply was low and cold and death, "Dovahkiin. _Rii Vaaz_." The bandit collapsed as his soul ghosted out of his flesh and fled to Oblivion, and the Dragonborn stood and drank in the silence.

Then he knelt, stripping the best pieces of armour from the three and strapping it around his own body.

Befitting his status of leader of the little extortion group, Jeek had a steel sword to his subordinate's iron. The other dead bandit bore a steel axe, but the former Divine had never favoured the axe. Taking Jeek's blade for his own, Hjalti cast a critical eye over the corpses' armour.

Iron boots were pulled off the axeman, while the swordman gave up a pair of steel Imperial gauntlets, which the ex-Emperor stapped on with approval. All three wore the same leather cuirasses, so with a shrug Hjalti stripped Jeek's leather armour and wriggled into it. After adjusting the buckles on the leather, he cast a last dismissive eye over their helms before shaking his head and continuing along the road.


End file.
